Between Departure and Sorrow
by A Libertine So Grim
Summary: Having burned the Hell-Fire Club to the ground, all that is left for Georik is to hear the last request of a man he failed to save. Continuation of Dashwood's ending #2 in the game Animamundi: Dark Alchemist.


Everything in the air heralded the end of an era as Georik Zaberisk knocked on the door of the Golden Goose, prepared for his one last séance to channel the spirits bound to him in the otherworld.

He did not know whether to feel relief or disconcertion over empty shelves and heavy trunks stacked with arcane artifacts; with his master gone, Jan van Ruthberg had nothing left for him in Kamazene, and his arts would follow him to the end of the earth he had vowed to reach. The shopkeeper had received him with nary a word and shown him to the dark room in the back of the store, a dismal lair wreathed in the smoke of incense and ghosts of the past; armed to the teeth as he might be underneath his chaste white robes, he was too crushed to raise a word, let alone a spell against the physician upon his last request. Even the magic circles drawn and hung at the entrance had been neatly removed, giving Mephistopheles free access were it not for his master's tight leash.

"I want to speak to him, Ruthberg. I owe him my thanks in the least." He knew Ruthberg had every reason to resent him and refuse him, just as much as Georik would have been entitled to drive his sword through the man's lean chest and pin him up on the wall of his precious little shop. Yet the Ouija board remained unpacked, beckoning under a thin layer of dust; realizing this, Ruthberg could but sigh and gesture the physician to claim a seat.

"I am sure it would please him greatly. Shall we begin then, Lord Zaberisk?" His voice was just as weak as his eyes were averted as he sat down to light a candle and run a silver pentacle over the board and its four corners, shattering the dust in small particles that disappeared into the now cleansed air like good intentions in face of adversity. He was a despicable yet fascinating being, so reminiscent of an oracle from the ancient times as he laid one finger on the planchette, beckoning Georik to follow suit. He smelled of myrrh and incense, yet the dense air around him grew colder as he closed his eyes and began his chant.

"O wandering spirit, heed my call. Give us a sign of your presence."

Georik waited, holding his breath, in fervent study of his own fingertips until the wood underneath them shook once. His heart skipped a beat, and he looked at Ruthberg, questioning. The medium stayed still, his fingernail barely touching Georik's on top of the planchette, still as death when a stronger tremor shook the entire table.

"Are you the spirit of the lately departed Francis Dashwood?" A silence followed Ruthberg's barely audible words, echoing the painful pause before the name that had so effortlessly been erased from the pages of history. Such a simple question would have gained a riddle in return, or perhaps another question; yet now, Georik's only answer was to be the word 'Yes' under the planchette, chosen with a slow but decisive movement. Was it hesitation or deceit, far from the barrage of words that he might have expected?

"So he says. How do I know it is truly him?" The fact that he had spoken to his father through this otherworldly contraption was of no reassurance as he waited, his eyes more watchful on Ruthberg's serene concentration than the board itself. His trust in the man had burned to the ground with the Hell-Fire Club; who was to say he was not tricking him into contacting a malevolent spirit, like that of one whose immortality had been splendidly disproven at Georik's feet in the very same feast?

"Ask him a question to which only he knows the answer." Ruthberg's expression, suddenly pained through his calm and composed mask, told of slight annoyance. It had been the same with the spirit of Georik's father, but this time, it would not be so easy. The secrets between him and Dashwood could as well have been common knowledge within the Hell-Fire Club, or someone else could have found out of their private affairs, so the options were scarce. He would not want Ruthberg to hear of the man's last moments, either, so the only thing that sprung to his mind was his first peek of the Black Mass, an appetizer before the main course he had so wanted to avoid…

"What did you give to me when I snuck into the Hell-Fire Club for the first time?"

He would have expected a curt reply, single words that barely made sense, but when the planchette started moving at a dizzying speed, he felt ill at ease yet comforted by what it evoked. Letters became words, those interwoven to form a perfect sentence, and even the flavor of those words was that of the very wordiest man he had ever known.

_A knife and a kiss, and then some. Ah, those were good times, Master Georik._

He smiled, surprised of his own reaction – it was that of an old friend, an expression he would have worn over a glass of brandy in reminiscence. Ruthberg looked at him with concern, but said nothing. So he knew not of their encounter – and better so; a careless slip of tongue from Dashwood could have reached all the way through to the master and earned him a place in the deepest of his burial chambers. Given the creed of the Hell-Fire Club, it could not have come as a shock either – was it jealousy Georik could smell in the air? He was never good with emotions, but when they sank well below zero, even he could tell.

The satisfaction of reaching the spirit of Francis Dashwood right before departure soon turned into darkness, weighing heavily on his chest and pulling him to lean closer, staring in the dancing flame. He would have to be careful lest the spirit was offended; not because it might cause him harm, but because he had hurt him enough. He would bring this unhappy fairytale into a closure while he still could.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Dashwood?" His eyes bore through the engraved wood, drilling to the depths of Hell in hopes of any sight of those maliciously twinkling amber eyes that followed his every move. He did not know what more to do: he had wiped the Hell-Fire Club from the earth in flames, held Dashwood's hand through his last breath – yet all of it was to avenge his father, not Francis Dashwood. He had thought it would suffice, but in the end, he had brought this man to his death, and unlike the faceless villagers in Geutrink or Zaitenburg, this man would haunt his few remaining dreams unless he put an end to his misery.

_Well, if you ask so nicely…_

_It's lonely; I could use some company._

"Well, it is more than likely I will join you sooner or later. I expect a warm welcome," he suggested with a dry chuckle, struggling not to falter where he knew it to be an outright lie. It was irony at its finest that those who worshipped the devil would never catch a glimpse of the Tempter himself, where a simple man such as himself was forever bound to one in blood, even after death. His would be a special place in Hell, nowhere near this man despite whatever he might have done for his livelihood.

_Warm indeed._

Where had his Dashwood been consigned to, a scorching desert or a pit of ice, he knew not; it was the depths and hues of the human body he was familiar with, not those of Dante's Inferno. Whatever sins he might be punished for in the bowels of the earth, at least they had not deprived him of his wicked sense of humour.

_I truly loved you, Master. If only I had lived long enough to prove it._

Those were the words that had Georik silenced completely; his voice, his heart and his thoughts died with the planchette that now lay still underneath his finger. He struggled to recall the last, feverish words coughed with blood from those lips – words he had ignored to concentrate on the incision that were to be his last. _With you… I could maybe… just maybe… _Be what – he had not heard over the sound of his heart pounding feverishly, over his head screaming orders for his hands as he worked to stop the bleeding and suture the gaping wounds displaying more than just blood.

What he could hear now was the wail of his own regret, the renaissance of powerlessness he had witnessed when the man had died in his arms, equally bereft of hope and lifeblood as he was swept away into the unknown. Death had wiped the pain off his face, lulled him to a peaceful sleep striped in blood that Georik had carefully washed away as he lovingly stitched him up and dressed his body in white. All he had wanted was to be with _him_, slayer of hundreds and bearer of devil blood, a doctor who could not save a single life in the end where he desperately wanted to?

He felt the burning need to say something – apologize for his incompetence, lament the sorry fate that befell him - but the words would not make themselves known. They could not heal the wound beyond the grave, let alone bring him back to life; he could have lived were it not for Georik's blind rage and lust for vengeance. If he had lived, he would be here, breathing in the physician's neck, invading his personal space, deserving a sound beating in the very least – and Georik would gladly restrain himself if it meant he still had a chance.

_Then again, if I had not introduced you to the Hell-Fire Club, I would never have tasted those sweet lips of yours._

How typical of Dashwood, Georik thought in grief, to downplay those rare words spoken in earnest; he remembered the pattern from when he had initially refused to join the Hell-Fire Club and caught the man freaking out at the thought of falling from the count's favour. It was how he would protect himself, not his own hide but the part that bruised worse than his gaunt limbs or his troublesome face.

"If that was to die for, I dread to imagine what else you might have had in mind." He scoffed, unable to believe himself – engaged in most indelicate banter with a dead man, he could not think of anything that would fight his reason more. How very inept he was at such things – if anything, he would earn a good laugh, be it on the other side or in the very room. Ruthberg, however, showed no sign of any kind; he seemed to have fallen into a deep trance once successfully contacting with the desired spirit. Heartened, Georik ignored his pride for a moment and humbly waited, pleased of the prompt response that dragged his finger across the board over and over again.

_If you're that curious, Master, there's one thing I could ask of you._

"I'm all ears, Dashwood." Any other time, such words would bode ill, but it was no longer a matter of choice but one of a debt more immense than that measured in millions of Zech. The dirty deeds were all done: the Hell-Fire Club burned to ashes, the puppet master dead… and his Dashwood laid to rest under the bleeding moon, under the weeping willow below Georik's window. He could have withstood the pain of setting foot on holy ground to give him a proper place to rest, but to be spotted in the dead of the night in the duties of undertaking could attract the undesired attention of grave robbers or prowlers of no good. Despite rooting out the nest of vipers, he could be sure that there still were some slithering free, having no qualms about desecrating and looting the body of another of their wretched trade.

He had never felt colder, not even in the clutches of Mephistopheles as he still fought to deny him; he could feel the ice in his veins, eating into his marrow as he waited, deciphering Dashwood's letter by letter.

_Touch yourself for me, Master. Show me what I am missing._

He could not bring himself to repeat the outrageous words out loud; a dead man making fun of him was absurd enough, but the words to actually sound like something Francis Dashwood might have whispered to him in the dead of the night while still breathing – that was a thing even worse. He had never known the man long enough to decipher whether those words were more than jest.

"Well, at least now I know it is truly you, Dashwood. No one else would ever say such things." _In death_, he thought to himself; had Dashwood survived, he doubted such words would have been the extent of his desire. All wandering hands and carefully lewd choices of words in the most inappropriate of times – he had ignored them, thinking of it as a bad habit or a means to annoy him out of his wits, until the man had saved his lamentable life in exchange of his own beyond compare.

"Lord Zaberisk … please ignore him. Sometimes malign spirits request the strangest of things out of spite." A faint blush now blossomed upon Ruthberg's pale visage as he spoke, a dainty hand tightly clutching the silver pentacle peering from the folds of his hood. He was more foolish than Georik had thought if he truly believed that silver would ward off such evil; for Dashwood, only gold would do the trick.

So he had thought, until he had received the light in the most painful way possible. Malign spirits were those with grudges; what Dashwood had was regret, and like any of those unnecessary and loathsome emotions, it was very contagious.

"Ruthberg, would you mind…" His voice dried up, yet the fair shopkeeper nodded in understanding; his eyes, however, gave a cold flash as he muttered an incantation before lifting his fingers off the planchette. It was not customary to connect to the otherworld without a medium, yet Georik had succeeded in speaking to his father alone, and now… he believed Dashwood would have been more articulate about his request if it involved a third wheel.

"Very well. I shall be in the back room if you need something," he said in parting, and the trail he left behind as he disappeared was of wrath and ice. _Good riddance_, Georik thought, hearing Ruthberg's spiteful words over and over again as they had plagued him mere moments prior to the Hell-Fire Club's downfall. He would not turn his back to his master, even if it meant the life of his comrade – that was how the world and society were built, yet something Georik had never believed in.

How little he had thought of Dashwood, yet how little he had known of his true affiliation. He would not live to make the same mistake again about another person – or about himself.

_Possessive, aren't you, Master?_

Scoffing, Georik shook his head, strangely at ease in the exclusive company of a ghost and a candle; he knew his body well enough to distinguish every tremble of his finger from the movement of the planchette, all without the medium's help. It was now only him and Dashwood, man to man, taking turns without haste as if in a game of chess. Time had always been against him, yet now, he had plenty to tell Dashwood exactly what it was that he wanted to hear.

"On the contrary, it is you who possesses me now. Alas, I am not a man of improvisation, so you will have to elaborate on your vague request," he spoke to the shadows, contemplating the point of view from which Dashwood might be watching. Mesmerized by the capricious flicker of the candle, he shivered as his finger followed the planchette; there was a feeling of heavy presence he could not shake away despite the voice of reason that fought its last. With Ruthberg gone, who was there occupying his seat, distorting the current of air and incense, staring to the bottom of Georik's soul sold short?

_Now, now, you make a dead man blush, Master. _

_There is no end to the things I would do to you if you'd let me, Master._

_Just show me, Master, how you would like me to… serve you. Tell me how it feels._

"Well, I am obviously unable to divest myself of my clothing as I would like, but I imagine you would find a convenient way around that." The times when he absolutely had to unwind his frustrations were scarce, yet when such a thing took place, it was in the rose-scented solitude of his bath or in the depths of slumber. Yet when Dashwood's touch had replaced the caress of air and water, tingled on his skin through fabric thinner than he ever knew, and made it past the near impenetrable obstacle of his belt, the nature of his needs had changed like ice to vapor.

_You are so beautiful, Master._

He shuddered, imagining the golden warmth of those eyes upon his skin – their sparkle forever gone, that exceptional shade of his irises soon hollowed out by maggots. Had he said this while his lips were still red and warm, eager as they claimed his to save a life, Georik would not have believed a word; yet to feel those words under the tip of his finger, mute as those lips now had turned blue and bloated, he could but believe like a martyr heading for the stake.

"So were you, Dashwood. For now, I can't really say." Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair, summoning the delectable timbre of the man's laughter from the depths of his troubled mind. It was no lie to soothe the pained soul of a damned, but a truth he never denied nor actively acknowledged. He had been the color to his monochrome, his brother-in-arms where neither darkness nor light held full reign; the deeper he had fallen, the more he had found himself thinking of Francis Dashwood, and not all the thoughts had been as pure as he would have cared for.

There he was again, sprawled on the grimy floor of the meat-packing factory, torn from the brink of damnation into Dashwood's torrid embrace. To think this was to be a memory the poor man had carried with him to the otherworld, when the circumstances could have been _anything_ else; why had he chosen _him, _the heir of a cursed family in fathomless debt, when he could have set his eyes on anyone else, anywhere else? Had he known better even Georik could have taken him away – treated him to at least a bed with sheets and an ounce of pity instead of the cold shoulder – and saved a life as the physician in him had vowed to.

What would it have been like to recognize those feelings when he had still stood a chance? Would he have let Dashwood lead him on, or would he have stepped up to the challenge himself, finding out whether such a carelessly filthy mouth was all talk? So many emotions had taken over him at once – fear, disgust, shame and anger – that he had failed to see the forest from the trees, to distinguish what he most needed to replicate the urgent heat and arousal that had captivated and guided him through the sordid spectacle. Had it been Dashwood's tongue, pushing past his lips like those between a woman's legs; or had it been his hands, painting the lines of his body in cold sweat, that had brought his manhood to full salute against the palm of the other's hand?

Dashwood, for one, would have been more than happy to help him find out; perhaps he would have shown that it was _trust _that guided him through the perils of the Black Mass, through everything until he had earned the medal of the bloody brotherhood. It was trust born of dire necessity, but trust that lived on behind closed doors, embodied in one of his more obscene offers that just perhaps could be worth accepting…

Had he delved any deeper in his fantasies he would have found the Ouija board lying on the floor, shattered into splinters like his mind when he opened his eyes to see another hand resting on his, touching the planchette where his sword arm had failed him in favour of another calling.

He opened his mouth to clear this misunderstanding, yet Ruthberg held a finger on his lips to keep him quiet. How long had he been there, watching where he was expressly asked to leave Georik alone with the spirit? How much had he heard of his words, how much had he seen of his half-witting actions to recreate the conditions of what was but half memory, half daydream?

"You owe him this, don't you? So speak to him and let me help you, Lord Zaberisk." Ruthberg's voice was sweet and moist as honey as it ran down his lips into the physician's ear, accompanied by a cold gust of breath as he knelt down behind him. Cold, unbelievably soft hands glided down his arms and chest, tingling on his skin through thin fabric, unspeakably bold as they unbuckled his belt to address the dire issue underneath.

"I wish… you were here… with me, Dashwood." Georik grimaced, his knuckles turning white against the table as he struggled not to arch into Ruthberg's cold, feathery touch. It was not his hand he wanted to feel, but Dashwood's: it was his one last favor to a man who died in vain for him, and he would not destroy the moment by letting another invade the moment the man had wished for but himself.

So he closed his eyes, summoning all of his strength – that of mind and body – to transform pale shades into tan hues and autumn red, soft skin into rough and bearded, high-pitched whispers into hoarse and sultry to grace his ear in a way he thought he had lost forever. Silver bangles chimed on his wrist as the man claimed his neck in a kiss, not that of a vampire but one of tender affection, one in the succession of many as they climbed up to take Georik's breath away.

Dashwood was so gentle, so attentive; he was patient to a maddening degree, a perfect contrast to his rough exterior as he would kiss him everywhere, that infuriatingly knowing smirk upon his lips as they caressed places Georik did not know could make him beg for mercy. Yet he gave none, halting to chuckle against moist skin as he took his delightful time in bringing the physician to the brink of madness where skin on skin would not be close enough.

This was the man who had held and caressed his hair through the rite of initiation underground, never daring to partake in the feast of flesh where other ravaged his body; this was the man whose eyes gleamed in tears as he led him quietly back to his mansion, offering his arm to support his wretchedly limping walk only to be refused. Francis Dashwood wanted something else, something that could not be acquired through blackmail or assault: and he made it known, unveiling his heart-wrenching secret in both word and deed as he lay down with his new and true master, bare and inviting, so trusting in the triumph of pleasure that Georik could no longer hold back his forsaken desires.

_Yes…_

_Yes!_

_Don't stop-_

He never intended to let himself go completely, abandon all sense and dignity for the sake of a debt of gratitude; just as little had he intended to join another man in flesh, arch and thrust in the throes of passion, moan his name while being called Master through unabashed cries of pleasure. Yet he fell, hard and deep to his little death, bringing this man down with him to where they belonged – together.

Catching his breath, he slumped down in his chair, barely aware of someone's laborious breath in his hair and the soiled silk of his handkerchief in his lap. The pentagram in the planchette had branded its mark into the soft pad of his finger, the last of the heat that had embraced him only heartbeats prior; now the room, cold and dark, welcomed him back from the blood red visions of lust and repentance in the arms of a dead man he had brought to life for one last embrace.

_And here I thought Hell was hot._

Francis Dashwood was dead, gone forever from the sorrows of this world; yet without his untimely demise, he would still live to see his master forever in the dark, his true heart unbeknownst to the one who unwittingly held it captive. Free from the chains of this world to be bound by tongues of flame in another, his only solace were to be his master's voice, reaching out to soothe his ears once more.

"I hope that was satisfactory, Dashwood. Perhaps we can continue from here on when we next meet, if you will wait for me to find you," Georik vowed, hand on chest, and blew out the last flicker of light behind the Ouija board. Lost and damned, he knew it a lie; yet it was the only thing he would dare to wish for should his soul break free from its rightful owner.

_Thank you, Master. You make me happy._

_Just make sure I won't be seeing you down here for a while, okay? It certainly wouldn't do to welcome Master unprepared. _

An eternity in flames, Georik thought; a somber smile upon his tender lips as a parting gift as he watched Ruthberg place his now unoccupied hand on the table to send off the wandering spirit. He distantly heard him beg the spirit's leave, but in the cage of his mind, he was still with Dashwood: brushing off his raunchy remarks, reading the friendly fire of his eyes, studying the slowly healing scars on his hands and wrists. He had to let go once more; he had to say goodbye, just as the letters engraved in that cursed piece of wood prompted him, giving him their cruel consent to withdraw his hand to wipe away a single stillborn tear.

Ruthberg helped him into his cape and hat, his lips tightly sealed ever since their misadventure with Georik's in his ecstasy; his eyes, however, were keen on the physician, observing his every move like never before. He was waiting for something, and the very instant Georik parted his dry lips to say goodbye, he knew what it was. The unmistakable flavor of _cantarella_ lingered on his tongue, yet sadly to waste in his body governed by the unholy matrimony of devil blood and heavy antidotes. How laughable it was that the Cantarella of rumour turned to be Count Sandwich's little doll of all things…

"Goodbye, Cantarella."

With one last look and the tip of his hat at the gaping – if not enraged – shopkeeper, Georik Zaberisk left the Golden Goose behind and walked away into the pouring rain. His princess would not sleep for much longer; he would be there at her moment of wake, embrace her one last time until it was his turn to give up his body and soul for the sake of love.


End file.
